


Precaution

by talekayler



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, M/M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Multi, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 08:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talekayler/pseuds/talekayler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a few shattered moments he remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Precaution

**Author's Note:**

> Written using the prompt of 'nightmares.' All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. Any mistakes are mine.

His back presses against the wall; he shivers under the blankets he has wrapped around him.

It doesn’t matter if his eyes are shut or open. The images and memories never cease their attacks. He shudders as each one flickers past, clenches his eyes closed until he sees spots of colour, and wishes for something as simple as Dreamless Sleep.

 

He’d needed ingredients. His stores from school had been exhausted, old and expired as they were. They were still better than nothing. 

Snape doesn’t look up when the door to his shop opens, doesn’t even bother to mutter a greeting. Harry watches as he carefully separates flakes with a pair of Muggle tweezers, each one falling into a separate phial of potion with a hiss and a stream of smoke. 

Harry sidles along the wall, his hand clenched around the list of ingredients he needs. He keeps one eye on Snape as he gathers his stuff together, juggling the items in his arms, and makes his way slowly back to the door. 

“I hope you had plans to pay for those.”

Cold spreads up Harry’s spine, leaving trails of gooseflesh in its wake. He turns and says as cheerily as possible, “Of course.” To his own ears, it sounds hollow, fake. 

He’d just planned on mailing the money after. 

Snape frowns and sets the tweezers down carefully on the table; they don’t even make a sound. In three quick strides, he makes his way from behind the counter to stand in front of Harry, peering down at the bundle in his arms. His eyebrow quirks.

“Dreamless Sleep, I presume? Unless you need a toxin for foxwing, you’re missing a very key ingredient.” He peers closely at Harry, crossing his arms over his chest, as if awaiting an answer. Harry doesn’t provide one, tries not to even meet Snape’s eyes. It’s hard, though, to keep his wandering eyes fixed on the vat of pickled newt eyes.

“The question that fascinates me most, though, Mr Potter, is why you are brewing it yourself.”

“I’m not,” Harry says. He hardly recognises his own voice. “Hermione–”

“I’m sure Granger is more than able to purchase her own stock, were she to be brewing. We both know how this potion will turn out after you get through with it, which begs the question: why are you brewing it?”

“Because it’s fun,” Harry snaps. 

Snape only waits calmly for an answer. 

“Because I figured teaching myself would be more useful than your methods.”

And waits.

“Because I’m not going to bother asking you for help.”

Then,

“Because I need it,” Harry says softly. “Because they wouldn’t let me buy any more.”

Snape gives a barely heard sigh and Banishes the items in Harry’s arms back to their stores. With another flick of his wand, the door is locked and the main lights turn off, so it appears as if the store has been closed. “Come, Potter,” he says, and leads the way into the back of the store.

Harry has no choice but to follow. 

 

He hadn’t known that there were restrictions on how much Dreamless Sleep one could buy. As it was, when the first store told him that that was all they could legally sell him, he had gone to the next. 

He’d forgotten, though, how quickly word travels. Especially when it’s _him_ that’s concerned. The next store hadn’t even let him buy a single phial, saying that too much would have disastrous effects. 

In hindsight, he should have been more careful. Spread out his purchases and the amount bought, smiled genuinely (or as close as he’d ever get nowadays) at the clerk, tell her it was a ‘just in case’ precaution, that they were for a friend.

But his addiction is irrational.

 

He hears the crack of Apparition outside his door and knows immediately that there’s no way he’s going to open it, no way he can afford to. Any one of his friends would use the Floo, and bar that, would have the forethought to send him an owl in advance. They knew he didn’t like surprises. None of them did anymore.

It made birthdays a right pain.

The knell of the bell drowns out his chuckle, clanging through the house. Harry doesn’t even notice anymore when Mrs Black starts her screeching. He leaves her at it and hunkers down on the floor by the door, resting his head against the wood. A dozen scenarios race through his mind, leaving him wondering who it is and why they’re there. 

The one person he hadn’t thought of speaks through the wood. “Let me in, Potter. I know you’re there.” 

“Why should I?” Harry asks, and he doesn’t think it’s nearly loud enough to be heard. Malfoy answers anyway.

“We’re concerned.”

It sounds like it’s said grudgingly, and Harry knows that the concern is grudging, too. Malfoy’s shown that he’s only concerned about his parents, now. They’re the only ones who want, or would allow, it.

He uses the handle to pull himself up and opens the door just enough for him to see half of Malfoy’s face. 

“Who’s ‘we’?”

Malfoy stares at him, unblinking and pale. His question never gets answered. “Fucking shit, Potter, you look terrible.”

Harry scowls. “Thank you for the compliment, but I’m afraid I have things I must shut up.” He gestures back into the hall where he’s still able to make out Mrs Black. She’s yelling about the lack of concern and propriety she has to put up with, about how she wonders how anyone like _him_ can still be alive. He’s heard it all before.

Malfoy easily pushes past Harry, knocking him off balance and into the wall. Harry’s hot with anger now, something he hasn’t felt in a long while. “I didn’t invite you in.”

“You opened the door. That’s enough of an invite for me,” Malfoy says. He strides down the hall, Harry following at his heels and trying to come up with a way to get him out. 

“Who’s ‘we’?” he asks again once Malfoy has settled himself carefully at the kitchen table with a pot of tea. 

“Why are you holed up in here and not responding to any owls?” Malfoy counters.

Harry blusters. “I haven’t gotten any owls,” he says.

“Oh?” Malfoy looks down at the kitchen table where there is a stack of yellowed envelopes. Harry looks carefully at them and notices that a familiar tight scrawl adores more than half of them. The other portion bares loopy, smooth handwriting. 

“I don’t come down here that often,” Harry says. It’s only half true – he only comes when Kreacher is out or when he gets sick of the library, or the sitting room. It had been impossible to miss the growing pile of letters, though. He had just assumed they would grow bored eventually and give him up as a lost cause.

“Why bother?” he asks, slumping down against the table and resting his head on his arms. The pile of letters becomes unfocused and blurry. He glasses must be really smudged. 

Malfoy’s voice is soft, coming from somewhere near his elbow. Harry hadn’t even noticed him moving. “Why shouldn’t we?” he asks. 

Harry could think of a dozen reasons, but his brain is too muddled to turn them into halfway coherent sentences. He manages to shrug a shoulder and buries his head behind his arms. 

There’s a huff of breath against his ear, and then a line of warmth across his shoulder, making Harry realise how cold he has been. A shiver wracks his body and he leans into the heat Malfoy’s arm provides.

Malfoy pulls him up from the chair, supporting most of his weight, and guides him toward the staircase. He flicks the curtains closed on Mrs Black’s furious face and leads Harry upstairs to the bedroom.

He whimpers when Malfoy eases him down onto the bed. It’s cold and hard and holds nothing but bad memories. The pillow and sheets are still damp from tears or sweat, or a mixture of the two. His hand fists itself in Malfoy’s sleeve. 

“Please,” he says. 

He doesn’t know what Malfoy sees on his face, doesn’t know what’s written across it or what he’s showing. All he knows it that Malfoy is crawling onto the bed after him, pulling the blankets over them and wrapping an arm tightly around Harry’s waist. Harry burrows his face under Malfoy’s chin, breathing in his scent. He finds himself relaxing marginally, the tension leaking away from his body. 

He never relinquishes his grasp on Malfoy’s robe, even in sleep, fearful that he might leave. 

Hours later, Malfoy is still there when he wakes.

 

Harry’s beyond certain that his life is cursed, that fickle fate gets her kicks out of him. He knows his life is not his own. It’s always been controlled by some guiding force – the Dursleys, Dumbledore, the prophecy, the war, nightmares. 

Some days, he tries to keep himself busy, tries to keep himself from sleeping or resting. If he can stay busy enough, he knows it can keep the memories at bay, and maybe, if he’s lucky, the guilt with them. It keeps his mind occupied, no matter how tedious the task is.

On these days, Grimmauld Place has never looked better. 

 

The next time there’s a knock on the door, Harry doesn’t even bother giving a token of resistance before opening it. Either Snape or Malfoy will breeze past him, sometimes one after the other. He likes those days best.

It’s Snape by himself this time. He greets Harry with a nod and waits for him to close the door, then takes him by the arm and up to the sitting room. He raises an eyebrow at it. It takes Harry a moment to realise why; last time Snape had been here, it was drab and chaotic. Now, the wood gleams, the furniture is reupholstered, and everything has its place. It gives him a burst of pride to see something in his life so orderly, to have something that makes sense and is easily cleared. 

Snape takes a seat on the sofa, indicating for Harry to join him. Harry sits as close as he dares. He doesn’t know how Snape would react if he pressed up against him. It’s different than when he’s dragged upstairs for sleep; it doesn’t feel awkward then to ask Snape or Malfoy to stay.

“I’ve reworked the potion,” he says. “If you keep taking the one you’ve been abusing” – Harry winces; he doesn’t like the word ‘ _abusing’_ being attributed to what he’s resorted to – “the effects will make things more difficult in the long run. This version,” he holds up a small phial and shakes it lightly, “will not put you into an instant sleep as the Dreamless would, but it will still keep the dreams at bay.”

Harry knows on some level that Snape isn’t telling him everything. But, as Snape is also one to keep secrets and hardly ever reveals the entire truth, Harry doesn’t find how this could be different. He trusts Snape. 

“Thanks,” he says, taking the phial. He holds it in his hands between his knees and stares at it. It shimmers at him, tiny bubbles rising from the bottom to the top, then sinking back down. They swirl together in a merry dance.

Harry’s overcome with the inexplicable feeling of being alone. 

He swallows. “Thanks,” he says again, his voice stronger this time, but also sounding more forced. He hopes that Snape doesn’t notice. 

Snape gives a slow nod and relaxes back against the sofa. “Draco said he would be by later.”

Harry starts and looks up. “Why? I mean,” he says when Snape looks at him, “why bother coming? You’re here already, and you’ll probably be on your way soon as it is.” Neither of them stay for long unless Harry is on the verge of collapse and all but pulls them into the bed with him when forced into it. 

“I thought… we’d thought we’d stay for a few hours. To make sure the potion works for you.” Harry had never thought he’d hear an excuse, a lie even, escape Snape’s lips. Not for something as trivial as this. “Unless you have plans.”

Harry shakes his head. He never made plans these days; always fearful he’d never be able to keep to them and would only succeed in disappointing his friends. 

From within the folds of his robes, Snape withdraws a dark bottle. He Conjures two glasses, pours a healthy measure into each one, and hands one to Harry. 

Harry accepts and inhales the scent deeply. It’s intoxicating and heady. He raises his glass in an imitation of Snape and takes a careful sip. It’s smooth on his tongue, slightly bitter and sweet at the same time. He licks a drop from his lips. “What is this?”

Snape’s eyes dart up to meet his – Harry tells himself that there’s no way Snape would be looking at his mouth – and says, “Surely you didn’t think that potions is all I’m able to brew, did you?”

Harry’s lips tremble into an awkward smile. “I hadn’t even given it a thought.”

Snape snorts and swirls his drink. “Clearly.” It’s said with a tinge of amusement, though, making Harry feel more at ease, and not as if he’s being berated. “I haven’t worked out a name for it yet. I was hoping you might provide some insight.”

Harry blinks. “Me?” 

Before he’s able to give his mind adequate time to process this, there are footsteps on the stairs and Malfoy appears in the frame of the door. He nods at them both briefly as he enters, setting down the basket in his hands on the coffee table. The smell of roast lamb teases Harry, makes his stomach grumble. 

Snape gives him a knowing look. “Didn’t I mention? It’s advisable to not take that on an empty stomach.” He gestures to the phial that’s clutched tightly in Harry’s hand. 

“Besides that, when was the last time you ate, Potter?” Malfoy says, opening the basket and presenting both Harry and Snape with a plate. 

Harry lifts the cover to his food and groans at the sight – jacket potato, roast lamb, heaps of vegetables, and on the corner, a little bowl of treacle. “This morning,” he says as he sets the plate carefully on his lap. It’s hard to keep track of time these days. Hours can seem like days, and minutes like seconds. “Got caught up in cleaning.”

Malfoy holds out a set of utensils for him. “I’ll not have you eating with your fingers,” he says pointedly while looking at the hand Harry had been about to use to snatch a piece of asparagus with. He colours slightly and takes the proffered fork. 

From there, they eat in silence, only the grate of knives on ceramic keeping them company. When at last Harry’s stomach is fit to bursting, he relaxes back against the sofa, cradling the plate on his lap.

“Thanks for that,” he says to Malfoy with a smile. Malfoy smirk-smiles back, a weird combination.

“Any time,” he says, and reaches forward to scoop the plates from Harry and Snape, replacing them in the basket. They shrink as he tips them in with a clatter. 

Snape drains his glass and stands. He and Malfoy share a look, and Harry knows that it’s about time for them to be off. The phial in his hand is hot and slick from sweat. Instead, Snape turns and offers Harry a hand. Nervously, Harry takes it and is pulled to stand. 

“Bed,” Snape whispers in his ear. Harry suppresses a shudder, even knowing that it’ll be as simple as taking a potion, and not as exotic as Snape makes it sound. 

 

He’s not accustomed to sleeping alone.

 

Harry wakes up hot and sweaty. He shoves the covers down until his chest is exposed to the chill air of his room. He shivers immediately. He throws an arm across his eyes and tries to calm his breathing.

He assumes that the potion has done its job; he can’t remember any horrid nightmares, no vivid replay of battles or lost loved ones. But there is a compressing feeling, making him feel weighted. He takes a shuddering breath and holds it in.

There’s movement beside him and Harry twists quickly to see what it is. Surely, Snape and Malfoy won’t still be here? But sure enough, there’s Malfoy sleeping to his left, one hand slightly extended toward Harry. He wonders if he had been clinging to that hand before. 

Malfoy’s presence calms him somewhat. His breathing becomes easier. He’s content to watch the even fall and rise of Malfoy’s chest as he sleeps, the slight twitch of his eyelids as he dreams. He’s peaceful in sleep, and Harry feels a small iota of that peace at being able to see Malfoy like this. 

Grudgingly, he turns his head away from Malfoy to face the other side, curious as to whether or not Snape is there. He’s lying on his back, black hair spilling over the pillow. It takes Harry longer than it should to realise that Snape is awake and watching him carefully. Harry gives him a very small smile.

“The potion worked?” he asks, in a voice barely above a whisper. 

“Yeah,” Harry breathes back, trying not to disturb Draco and the peace of midnight. “Thanks.”

Snape hums and closes his eyes. Harry turns back to stare at the ceiling. 

“Why, though?”

He hears Snape shift beside him on the bed. “Why what?”

“Why go through the trouble of making a new potion? For me?”

Snape breathes out harshly. “Potter, if you haven’t realised that by now, then why should I bother to explain it?”

He startles Harry by curling an arm around Harry’s middle, pulling him until Harry’s back is pressed against his chest. He breathes into Harry’s hair, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon.”

 

It takes Harry a long time to do so. A part of him wonders if he’s known for a while on some level and just hadn’t been able to attribute the correct words to it. 

Once he’s realised, though, he has no idea what to do about it. How does he begin to ask Draco, or Severus for that matter, to give him more than they already have? To do more for him than they’ve been doing already? 

He can only fool himself by thinking that they would _want_ to, but the thought never lasts for long. He wonders if there’s something he can do for them, to make them realise how much they have come to mean to him as well. 

Frustrated and in need of a change of scenery, he ducks into the Floo and heads to the first place he can think of – the Burrow. 

It’s almost as if he’s never left. Other than an enormous hug from Mrs Weasley, no one mentions his absence. Hermione and Ron both give him genuine smiles that hold a tinge of sadness, and he can just see their hands clasped under the table as he makes his way toward them. It makes him realise how long it’s been since he’s actually talked with them, and how much he’s missed. 

The hours slide by with food and company and old friends. He’s surprised that he can enjoy himself this much, actually. It’s well past ten before he has to call it a night, politely refusing a bed. He doesn’t know how to explain to them he has trouble sleeping without Draco or Severus, or both, nearby.

When he staggers from the grate into Grimmauld, the first thing Harry notices is Draco sitting stiffly on the sofa. His head jerks up when Harry appears; his face is paler than normal.

“Where did you disappear off to?” he asks, slightly snidely. 

“Just to the Burrow,” Harry responds. Saying it makes him feel almost guilty, as if he had needed permission before creeping away. 

Draco’s face visibly falls. “Oh.” He stands, awkwardly, and gestures toward the door. “I’ll just get Severus and we’ll be on our way, shall we?”

Harry’s heart stops. “What? Why?”

Draco’s awkwardness turns back onto itself. “Well, it’s not like you need us now, anymore, is it? Now that you’re back to your righteous Gryffindor self, we can go or separate ways.”

Harry’s taken aback by the venom that fuels Draco’s words. He finally manages to choke something out as Draco reaches the doorway. 

“I never said I didn’t need you.”

Draco stops in the doorway, his shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow.

“You’ve done so much for me, and I’ve… I need the chance to be able to do the same for you.”

Draco spins, his face red and his eyes alight with anger. Harry cuts across him before he can get more than two words out.

“It’s not so that we’re even or something. I _want_ to. I want to give you something as important as you’ve given me. I want….”

Harry lets out a breath and rubs his eyes behind his glasses. The words aren’t coming out the way he wants them to and Draco’s just standing there, his patience visibly slipping away from him with each second.

There are footsteps out in the hall, and Harry’s stomach turns to stone. If he can’t even get the words out in front of Draco, how is he ever supposed to form them with Severus here too? He closes his eyes when Severus enters, only catching the brief flicker of his robe. He hears Severus’ hushed whispers in Draco’s ear, and his curiosity gets the better of him. Warily, he opens an eye to see Draco’s face screwed up in a combination of hope and confusion and Severus making his way toward where Harry stands.

Harry swallows, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and clamps his eyes shut again, even when there’s the whisper of Severus’ robe along the floor. A hand tilts his face up and Harry can’t help it anymore. Severus’ eye glimmer when he meets them. 

“You’ve given us something important already, Mr Potter – a chance,” Severus says, and bends close. His lips brush across Harry’s forehead, lingering. Harry’s hand wraps itself around Severus’ arm, feeling as if he’ll fall down at any moment if there’s nothing to hold him up. 

It’s nothing compared to when Severus dips down enough to touch his lips to Harry’s; his knees are weak and his grip on Severus’ wrist tightens reflexively. All he’s aware of is the way Severus’ lips feel – soft, gently urging his own apart, and not chapped at all – the way his hair falls to tickle against Harry’s cheek, how his fingers wrap themselves around the back of Harry’s neck and tug him just a little bit closer. 

Harry’s mouth opens in an automatic response, but Severus doesn’t deepen the kiss. He pulls back a little, dragging his lips over Harry’s cheek to his ear and whispers, “Took you long enough.”

Harry’s not sure if it’s a huff or a laugh that escapes his mouth in a rush. All he knows is that he wants more of this, whatever it is. 

He spies Draco behind Severus, looking eager and nervous; he fidgets when Harry catches his eye, coming closer by inches as if he’s afraid he’ll be turned away if he makes one wrong move. 

Severus steps away, motioning for Draco to come forward, and his uneasiness disappears in an instant. He strides forward and locks a hand around Harry’s forearm, pulling him closer before repeating Severus’ actions. Harry not sure which of them makes the moan; his head feels light, making the whole moment seem more like a dream than it already is.

They never progress to the bedroom. They don’t even make it to the hallway. Afterwards, Harry is grateful for this. The bedroom to him means something different than whatever is building up between them, this urgency, the need. He’d like to be able to experience Draco’s hands sliding his robe off his shoulders and Severus’ nips and prodding fingers in a room that doesn’t taunt him. 

Instead, they ease down onto the floor, lying atop of shed robes and tearing off shirts and kicking away trousers.

Severus’ fingers travel down Harry side, sending shivers with each caress as he massages his way around Harry’s body. Harry is torn between the two of them, arching into the teasing fingers and pushing forward and urging Draco into deeper kisses. He hooks his leg over one of Draco’s and draws him closer, his fingers tugging at the material of his pants, waiting for permission to remove the last obstacle separating them. Draco’s hips twitch in his grasp, and there’s a drawn out “ _Yes…_ ” that escapes from his mouth to Harry’s.

Severus helps him ease the material away. Harry’s breath catches every time he feels Severus behind him. He pushes back with his hips, rubbing against Severus’ skin and twining his other ankle in between his. He feels Severus nudge a knee between his legs, a hand on his hip to keep him steady as Harry finishes removing Draco’s pants. 

Draco’s eyes are bright as he watches Harry, and Severus behind him. His hand cards through Harry’s dark hair, pulling gently and massaging his scalp. 

“What do you want, Harry?” he asks. 

It takes him a moment to respond. He can’t find the correct words, so he says, “I don’t know.”

It doesn’t stop them, never brings a halt to Draco or Severus’ movements. It’s as if they know exactly what Harry needs and wants, which, Harry thinks, is no different than what they’ve been doing up to now. He opens up at their urging, returning their kisses, moving his leg higher up where it rests on Draco’s thigh. 

Their pricks meet, bobbing and sliding against each other from every twitch of the hips; it drives Harry mad. Severus’ cock slides easily along the crack of Harry’s arse, building up a counter rhythm to Draco. His lips glide along Harry’s shoulder, teeth biting down just as Draco’s hand wraps around their cocks, pressing them together tightly and stroking in long pulls. Harry shudders. His hand rests against Draco’s chest and it’s an easy task to reach and flick a finger against a single nipple. Draco hisses, arching forward into Harry’s hand and begins to stroke faster, pulling at their cocks. 

Something in Harry snaps and comes loose, a part of him he hadn’t realised had been missing. He sobs as his orgasm rips through him and leaves him shuddering between Severus and Draco. Dimly, he hears them kiss over his shoulder, feels Draco’s cock pulse alongside his, the streams of come as they slide between their bodies, and it sends another wave of shivers along his spine. He pushes back against Severus, clenching his arse around his cock, wanting for him to come as well and lose himself. Severus muffles his moan against the skin of Harry’s neck, his fingers digging into his hip and leaving crescent indentations behind when his grip begins to slacken. 

The floor only begins to get uncomfortable as the sweat dries on Harry’s skin, but he has no desire to move. He lies encircled in Severus’ arms, panting and enjoying the feeling of being surrounded.

Eventually, Severus groans and moves away, grumbling something along the lines of, “I’m too old to lie on the floor.” Harry flops over onto his back, the heat leeching away from the floor and the cold of the wood settling into his back. He shivers and allows Severus to pull him up, taking Draco along with him. 

As Severus waves his wand to _Scourgify_ the floor, doubt begins to make itself known in Harry’s mind again. What if they leave? _Would_ they leave now, after they’ve gotten what they wanted?

Draco seems to see something on his face. He slings an arm around Harry’s shoulder and leans against him heavily, as if his legs are too weak to support him anymore. “Bed?” he asks Harry, as if in permission.

The single word eases Harry’s worries. He wraps his own arm around Draco’s waist and hauls him along as they follow Severus up the stairs.

 

There are some things he’s not used to. There are some things he knows will take him a while to adjust to – like sharing his toast - or be able to do – like sleeping without his wand. 

There are things he knows he’ll never be able to do again – like sleeping alone. 

 

Slowly, Harry realises that they’ve moved into together. Each of them have snuck clothes over and absconded with small – and not so small, in Draco’s case – spaces in which to store them. The bathroom feels tinier than ever with three people using it, and Harry thinks that expanding the shower has to have been his best idea to date. 

It’s a month later when Draco gets fed up. “It’s uncomfortable,” he says, his arms crossed as he stands at the foot of the bed. “Every time I have to use the loo in the middle of the night, I have to crawl over you two.”

“I don’t mind,” Severus says, draping his slacks over a hanger and hanging them in the closet. Harry has to cover his mouth before Draco catches sight of his grin. 

“Of course you don’t, but one of these days I’m bound to put a knee in the wrong spot.” Draco frowns at the bed and casts a look at the room in general. There’s not a whole lot of furniture in here – just the bed, a small wardrobe that’s bigger on the inside, and a rickety nightstand. With a couple flicks of his wand, the nightstand shuffles to press against the opposite wall, allowing for the bed to slide over, groaning its way across the room. Draco looks satisfied. 

Something about if throws Harry off. He’s always had his bed right against the wall, as an extra barrier of protection. It’s made him feel more secure when he’s woken by nightmares.

He gives himself a mental shake. He doesn’t need a _wall_ to make him feel safe anymore. He’s got something much better. 

 

It was bound to happen sooner or later. He’s just thankful that Ron stumbled through the Floo into a (somewhat) tame moment. Still, his chest is heaving and there’s a dusting of pink on his cheeks and throat. Ron takes on a dangerous shade of red. 

Draco is quick to tear himself away. It only takes him a moment to decide that he’d rather be anywhere but here, and Harry’s worried that he’ll leave the room. He pulls his shirt into order.

Ron coughs and glances around the room. “I see,” he says. Harry’s not sure what to make of it. 

Draco stands and sends Harry’s heart plummeting to his feet, but Ron stops him before Draco gets the chance to move or say anything. “Wait, I’d like a word, Malfoy.”

Draco hesitates, casting a look down to where Harry sits on the couch. Ron’s added, “Alone” makes Harry look up at him, but Ron’s only looking at Draco, an indescribable expression on his face. 

Neither of them move or make a sound as Harry stands and heads out of the room. He glances over his shoulder as he closes the door behind him. He leaves it open for as long as he dares before he closes it, only managing to hear Ron say, “I know what you’ve done, Malfoy.”

He can’t stand not doing anything, of not having something to occupy his hands or capture his attention. He heads down to the kitchen, where Kreacher is just starting to whip up a late lunch. He stares blankly at Harry when he asks if there’s anything he can do to help, and then in doubt when he asks if he can do it himself. 

Once Kreacher leaves him to it with a suspicious look, Harry allows himself to get lost in the flow of dicing vegetables and getting slowly covered in flour and butter. By the time Ron enters and flops himself down at the table, Harry is scrubbing off the remains of the stubborn pastry that cling to his hands.

“Smells wonderful,” Ron says, and makes him jump. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly when Harry turns to face him, white faced and wide eyed.

Harry sits across from him, inching forward until he’s perched on the edge. Not knowing what else to say, he says, “Hi.”

Ron snorts. “Hi.” Then he sighs and leans his arms on the table.

Harry is crumbling the last of the dried pasty between his fingers when Ron says, “We had suspected that you had someone. We’d figured you’d tell us when you were ready.”

“How?” 

Ron shrugs. “You’ve changed. We see you more often. You look… happy.” He passes a critical eye over Harry. “You are, aren’t you?” 

Harry knows the smile that spreads over his face is warm. “Yes.”

“Good,” Ron says and smiles back. 

“You’re not angry over the fact that it’s Draco?” He doesn’t know if Ron knows about Severus, doesn’t know how he’d react to it, even. 

“The way I see it, we kind of owe him one, you know? It seems like he really… cares for you. He’s no doubt done more for you than any of us have.” He sounds guilty over the fact, but Harry knows that Ron and Hermione have had a lot on their own plates, and the Weasley family in general.

“We all coped with it differently,” Harry says. Ron nods and traces a finger along the grain, digging his nail into the table. 

“I’m happy for you,” he says eventually. “Even though Malfoy may not have been my first choice.” He looks at Harry and asks, almost as if he’s scared of hearing the answer, “There’s not someone else, is there? Malfoy said something that got me thinking... he’s not cheating on you is he?” 

Harry laughs.

 

People will always allow for their prejudices to make their choices for them, to get the better of them and allow them to act without thought of the results caused to other people. Most people won’t care, or realise. They’ll tell you that they helped, did you a great service, and smile winningly at you before they skip off with a lightened and blackened heart. 

He knows this now.

 

It’s not long before the news is splashed over the morning _Prophet_. Harry doesn’t even read the article, just stares at the headline as he waits for his lovers to wake. There’s even a photo – he notices the top edge of it, but with the way the paper is folded, does not know what it’s of – though how they got one of the three of them, he can’t even begin to wonder. And judging from the type, he doesn’t think it’s a perfectly innocent one, either.

Draco rolls over, his arm reaching across Harry’s chest. His eyes blink open, and he stares at the bottom half of the paper as if he’s unsure of what he’s seeing. 

Harry can tell the exact moment he’s fully awake. “Bloody fuck.”

He grabs the paper from Harry’s numb fingers and shakes it open. The rest of the paper falls into Harry’s lap as the photograph is revealed, and Harry is only half right. It looks innocent enough, but Harry remembers the moment vividly, and it is certainly _not_.

They’re up in the sitting room, trading kisses and talking, nestled together on a too small sofa. When Harry looks closely, he can just make out the fresh love bites, can see how the sweat that layers their skin shines from the sun slanting through the window. Harry’s thankful that Draco is positioned in such a way that he blocks the observer’s view of the front of his trousers, which had been left open as they lazed in the sun.

“We should check the wards on the upper floors,” Severus says. It’s said so calmly that Harry just nods dumbly. 

“It’s a good picture,” Draco says absently as he reads. 

“But….” Severus says, and looks expectantly at Harry.

“Would you have wanted it to happen this way? Or at all?” he asks softly.

“Why wouldn’t we have wanted it to happen?” Severus sits up to rest against the headboard. “If any trouble comes from this, I think we’re more than capable of dealing with it as it comes.”

Draco sets the _Prophet_ down between their thighs. “They’re even half way decent, saying that you turned us around and are making honest men of us. Except for the bit at the end, but they are clearly just trying to create rumours and gossip so they can print more.”

The calm both Draco and Severus put out wraps itself around Harry as well, and he takes the time to study the photograph. It is a really good shot, even if the means of obtaining it were... undesirable. 

It goes missing from the paper at some point during the day, appearing again on the mantle in a filigree etched bronze frame.

 

He’s just dozing off when he remembers. He startles out of his half asleep state, whipping over in the bed as quickly as he can without disturbing his bed companions. 

“Severus,” he whispers, his hand tight around Severus’ shoulder. “Severus!”

“Yes?” Severus comes awake reluctantly, sending a baleful glare Harry’s way.

“I didn’t have – we forgot the – the–”

Severus catches his meaning. Closing his eyes again, he says, “You don’t need it.”

Harry stares at him, gob-smacked. “But… what?” Of course he did… didn’t he?

Severus gives up on the hope of returning to sleep any time soon. “You don’t need it. You’ve not needed it for a while now, Harry.”

“But… you’ve still been giving it to me… and I’ve not had any nightmares….”

Severus reaches out and brushes a hand across his brow. “You haven’t taken anything for your nightmares for weeks now. The last few phials have been placebos, Harry, sugared potions. The only thing they do is help satisfy that enormous sweet tooth of yours.”

Harry blinks, and Severus allows him time to adjust to this new information.

“You don’t need a potion to fend off nightmares anymore.” Severus leans in close and brushes his lips against Harry’s. 

Behind him, Draco’s arms tighten around his waist. 

 

He knew it was a mistake. Knew he should have protested more strongly, fought harder. His instinct had never failed him before, so why should it do so now?

Instead, he’s left with the haunting of the past and terror for the future.

 

He dithers about on the stoop for a moment, making sure the door is locked and secure several times before he steps off onto the sidewalk. The gate creaks – not ominously, he has to think – behind him as he strides off down to the park across the street. There, he finds a tall beech tree, its limbs hanging low and brushing his shoulders as he stands under its protective embrace. With a deep breath, Harry Disapparates.

He reappears in an alley just off to the side of Severus’ shop. The door is open either in a futile attempt to catch the wind – nonexistent – or to make the entrance appear more welcoming. A small smile creeps across Harry’s face as he heads inside.

“If you want something, make it quick. We close in–” a pause as he checks the time, “–thirty seconds.”

“May take me longer than that,” Harry says, coming around to stand before the counter. 

Severus’ head comes up and he stares at Harry as if unsure that it’s really him. Then, “Ah,” he says, and smirks. “Yes, it usually does.” 

Draco’s head pokes out from between stacks in the back of the shop. He grins widely. “Excellent, we may be on time for the dinner yet.”

“I don’t know how it always ends up being _my_ fault if we’re late when it’s always Draco that’s rushing.”

Severus gives him a conspiring wink and flicks his wand at the door to seal it shut. “Give us a minute to wrap up, and we won’t have to lay blame at anyone’s feet if we’re late.”

Harry sits down on a covered barrel of sea slugs and is content to watch the two of them clean and tidy the shelves, lock away the more expensive of ingredients, and deposit the galleons and sickles that accumulated over the day.

They leave through the back entrance and exit into an alley, an awning so green that it appears black protecting them from the downpour that had started up. Harry takes off his glasses to cast _Impervious_ on them before they go any further. 

A crack splits through the noise of the drizzle, startling Harry into dropping his glasses. He knows that sound; it’s not thunder. 

He feels Draco and Severus getting into position in front of him as he collapses onto his knees to search for his glasses. He’s of no use if he can’t even see, and hopes that whatever is happening it’s just a mistake, or someone who Apparated to the wrong spot, or just a regular passer-by. His gut instinct tells him otherwise. 

By the time he’s gotten his glasses back on, there are no fewer than five wizards surrounding them, hoods pulled up to protect their faces and repel the rain. Harry stands on shaky legs, using Draco’s arm for support. Draco reaches back and wraps Harry’s hand in his. 

“Whatever happens,” he says, but isn’t given time to elaborate before a spell streaks its way toward their clasped hands and forces them apart, Harry whirling away from the explosion of the door behind him. 

After that, there’s hardly even time to counter the attacker’s spells. Harry’s thoughts are tumbling through his mind, wrapped around the single question of _Why?_

They’re being forced away from each other, herded almost, Harry realises. The entrance to the alley is at his back, as if the two wizards forcing him there expect him to turn tail and run, expect him to leave Severus and Draco to fend for themselves. He snarls.

There are anti-apparition wards up, preventing them from leaving, but if Harry focuses hard enough, he bets he can manage to Apparate over to where Severus and Draco are, backed against a wall and closed in by wizards on all sides. He feels as if his lungs have been torn out when he appears between them, falling back against the wall as he tries to get his breath back. 

Severus is duelling so quickly with two of the wizards, it’s hard for Harry to see his wand move, or the type of spells being used. He fights silently, and no doubt his Occulmency shields are high, as he had once tried to teach Harry. 

They don’t stay together for very long, Harry and Draco being backed into the corner of the alley by the other three wizards, throwing curses and jeers at them one after another. 

Draco’s beginning to panic. His wand movements are getting sloppy, he’s over compensating with his feet, and his eyes flick over to Harry more than should be safe. Harry blocks as many curses as he can from getting to Draco, while trying to force back two of the attackers. Distantly, he spots Severus casting a curse that makes one of the wizards collapse and begin to thrash, as if his robes are strangling him. 

He has to force his eyes away, just in time to deflect a spell that ricochets off the alley wall and showers them with bits of brick and mortar. The assailants press their advantage, throwing curses faster than ever, until Harry’s sure that they’re about to lose. Despair claws at his heart. 

He sees the spell coming for Draco, knows that he’s just an inch too far away, reacting seconds too late. But it doesn’t stop him from jumping forward, hands brushing against Draco’s robe as Draco fights to get out the grasp of the spell that slowly sucks the air away from him. His wand clatters to the ground, rolling to rest against where Draco’s had fallen, the two of them resting on the pavement and barely touching. He’s just in time to catch Draco before he falls.

Draco’s lips are moving, his eyes focused on a point over Harry’s shoulder. Harry can’t concern himself over whatever is happening behind him, whatever the wizards are doing or are preparing to cast. He fumbles around for his wand, only coming up with thistles and old broken yew twigs. 

He doesn’t miss the widening of Draco’s eyes. Before he knows it, Draco has rolled them, pushing Harry onto the ground and using his body to shield whatever curse had been thrown at them. The breath leaves Harry’s lungs in a rush again, and the only thing he’s able to see are the words forming on Draco’s blue-tinged lips. _I’m sorry,_ or perhaps, _love you_.

“Draco,” Harry manages to get out as the spell slices through Draco’s robes and skin in a sick rendition of the past, and Harry is thrown back into an old school bathroom. “No.”

Draco’s far too still in his arms as Harry struggles to sit up, struggles to stop the blood flowing out of wounds with his hands. 

On the edge of his consciousness, he hears laughter. A crack. A scream.

It’s the shout that gets his attention. He clutches Draco’s body closer to him, drawing his knees up to better cradle him. His heart is in his throat as he looks up, trying to find where Severus is behind the darkness and the film of haze. 

Severus forces one of the remaining wizards to retreat; it’s hard to tell where the other one’s have gone off to. Harry can see the vivid pain behind his eyes when he looks Harry’s way, sees the faint track on his cheeks. He looks crushed, and Harry doesn’t think he’s seen Severus look so vulnerable. 

The alley is quiet and the single step Severus takes toward him rings, muffled as it is by the downpour. Harry hears it crystal clear. 

He does see the wizard that reappears behind Severus, but he doesn’t think he has the voice to shout off a warning. Something must show on his face, though, as there’s a moment when Severus becomes aware of him. He doesn’t manage to turn more than halfway.

The colour green is permanently etched in Harry’s mind, the flash of it strong in the space that separates them. Harry watches, transfixed and breaking as Severus falls to the ground and lands in a heap, not three feet away. 

After that, he’s not sure what happens. He remembers anger and sorrow, a blinding light and the draining of energy. He hears their attackers shout in voices threaded with fear and cower on the ground. He remembers the stillness. The quiet. The pain.

And then nothing.

 

They tell him at St Mungo’s that it was accidental magic, protective magic. They tell him it was instinctual. 

All he wonders is why it didn’t happen when it mattered.

 

He returns home to a Grimmauld Place that is mouldy and depressing and empty. It claws at him. He claws at the bandages around his wrist, his midsection, his leg, leaving them lying in a heap on the floor in the entrance. 

For a moment, he stands in the middle of the hallway, wondering what to do and where to go. Something tells him he shouldn’t be alone. That he shouldn’t be here. 

He takes another step forward into the house. 

With the next, he’s twisting away into the air.

 

He remembers a lot of things, images and moments that make no sense when compared against each other, moments that are happy or horrible, or both, conflicting images wrapped around each other. 

He remembers.

 

When he wakes, it’s to the smell of jasmine and evening stalk. His hands are trapped under the pillow and he’s spread out on the bed. There are hands ghosting over his back, rubbing oil into his skin. He arches into the touch, a low moan escaping his lips.

A voice whispers into his ear. “Finally awake, are you?”

 

Harry jolts so badly he falls off the couch and onto the lacquered wood floor of Ron and Hermione’s living room. He lies there for a while, trying to catch his breath and figure out what horrible thing had woken him this time. 

His eyes slide shut when it comes to him. His hand fists in the rug that he’s missed by scant millimetres. 

He forces himself to his knees, glancing around the sitting room. There’s a desk in the corner, books stacked high against the wall. They look like a replica of the Burrow, crooked and on the verge of toppling, but held securely in magic’s embrace. 

It makes him both cold and longing for the past.

Slowly, he makes his way toward the desk and uses the chair there to pull himself up. He rummages in the drawers until he finds rolls of parchment and tears a small strip off. He slides extra ink from the quill back into the holder and sets the tip against the parchment; it quivers for a moment, shaking between his fingers. 

_Thank you,_ he writes. _I’ll see you soon._

He leaves the strip of parchment on the coffee table, and Floos back to Grimmauld. 

He doesn’t know how he’ll ever get used to how empty and quiet it is now. He makes a point to make as much noise as he can when he wanders through the rooms with a pail and a rag, wiping at the floors and windows and shaking out the carpets, humming to himself as he does so.

Dust can build up so quickly.

 

When he looks in the mirror, he sees himself skinnier than ever, his face looking like it’s aged thirty years in mere weeks. His scar stands out like a vivid smear of red across his pale skin, his hair even more when he presses it flat. He gives it up as a lost cause and disappears into the shower until the water runs tepid and steam has covered the mirror and its accusing stare.

Sometimes, when he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t just see himself. Sometimes, he sees Severus, standing behind him with his arms crossed and his face fixed with disapproval. Or other times it’s Draco, biting his lip and a mixture of contempt and worry on his face. Harry knows he’s let them down.

Sometimes, he has to force himself not to break it.

 

He finds that he cooks a lot, now. He doesn’t know when it started, or how it progressed from beans on toast to a full English spread; from packaged, store bought pastries to homemade pies and tarts. He finds it relaxing now, no longer a chore as it has been in the past. It’s easy to lose himself in the flow of it all. He likes the feeling of cooking for someone, and watching them as they enjoy it. He likes being able to do this simple thing, this simple thing that means much more than he’d have originally thought. 

His back is to the door, but he can always tell when one of them comes downstairs, long before he’s folded into an embrace and a chin rests against his shoulder as Severus looks down to see what he’s making this time.

“Cheesecake?” 

“Mmm,” Harry says.

Severus taps a finger against his stomach. “What else?”

Harry turns his head enough to grin at him. “Guess you’ll just have to find out.”

 

He’s not sure if some of the memories he can lose himself in so easily are really his, or if they’re true or not. He decides that it doesn’t really matter, as the wind whips across the frosted windowpane, leaving smears of fresh snow on the glass. It huddles in the corners, as if searching for an escape from the storm itself.

His back hurts as he sits on the sofa, idly stirring his mug of cocoa as it cools. The warmth from the mug seems to skip over his fingers entirely as it leeches from the ceramic, evaporating into thin air. He sets it down on the table, as full as it was when he brought it into the room.

He’s getting too sick of this room; it doesn’t feel as if he ever leaves it some days. He wakes up to the peeling wallpaper, spends the day staring into the cold grate – or at the embers if Kreacher managed to get a fire going – and sees just a sliver of the night sky as he tosses on the sofa in a futile attempt at sleep.

The bedroom is the only room he hasn’t cleaned.

He knows there are any number of spare bedrooms in Grimmauld Place, but none of them seem as welcoming to him. They don’t hold the same amount of… cheer or personality as their old one. 

Not as much love.

 

He knows this is a dream. He knows this as surely as he knows that he’s going to wake up very soon, sooner than he’d like.

He knows this because there’s Draco, kneeling on the floor with his back turned to the door. Severus is kneeling across from him, and both of them are peering down into a space between the floorboards. 

Draco removes something from the inside of his robe, but Harry can’t get into a good enough position to see what it is. His feet are held to the floor with what looks like Devil’s Snare, his body as stiff as if someone had cast _Petrificus_ on him.

He sees the board being slid back over the gaping hole in the floor, than half of a secret, shared smile between Severus and Draco. 

He’s all set to shout in frustration, to leap forward with all his might. It’s the last chance he has, he can tell, because even though this is a dream, it’s very much _real_. 

They exchange words in an undertone as they stand, Draco helping Severus up as his knees complain. Harry’s only able to catch a few words – his name, a particular moment – or maybe precaution, Harry can’t quite make it out – a phial, Draco hoping it isn’t necessary. Severus saying that it won’t be, but he’d still like it to be safe.

And then they turn and see him. Time speeds up, the room fades, and Harry lurches forward as the Devil’s Snare releases him. He doesn’t dare take a step forward, though, fearing that he’ll be sucked into the bottomless chasm that keeps them from each other.

They smile, and Harry smiles back. He feels the gentle tug of his consciousness, and screams with it for just a few more moments, another second, _please_. 

As he’s ripped away, words echo in his head.

There are tears on his cheeks when he wakes up.

 

The room is musty when he opens the door. There’s a film of dust and dirt on everything, and the sheets are exactly as they were that long day ago, waiting for three tired and sweaty people to climb back between them, or make them even messier than they are now. The bed is still pushed away from the wall, the space between the two a yawning gap.

Harry sucks in a breath as he stands on this precipice. The wardrobe door is ajar by an inch. It’s that more than anything that draws him into the room. He shuts it softly, the click muted in the room.

He Conjures a shallow bowl and rips the sleeve of his shirt off, throwing it into the bowl, filling it with water, and getting right to work.

The window is the first to be cleaned. Even the small bit of dawn that breaks through the clouds goes a long way to make the room feel lighter. The sleeve leaves a few streaks of grime behind, but Harry figures that’s okay; it gives him an excuse to clean it again later.

The sun is up properly by the time the room gleams, the sheets are freshly laundered, and the wardrobe reorganised. 

Harry feels lighter when he looks around the room. As if he’s cleaned up his own demons.

 

The spoon clatters to the floor and leaves a stain of sauce on the vinyl tile. “Shit,” Harry mutters under his breath. He tears from the kitchen and up the stairs as he remembers why it was that he was cleaning that room to begin with. The floorboard.

It’s covered with his fingerprints quickly as Harry scrabbles with it and trying to pry it free. His wand is down four flights of stairs in the kitchen.

The board comes away with a moan. Panting, Harry looks into the narrow, hollow space below.

At first, he thinks it’s empty, and his stomach sinks. But there’s a glint of something tucked away at the edge, the only bright thing in a pit of dirt. Harry’s hand is full of dust when he reaches down for the phial there.

It’s filled with a silvery substance, and Harry knows what it is immediately – memories. 

He eases back down to collapse against the floor. He stares at his hand, at the phial clasped alongside the debris in his palm. 

He clutches it to his chest and wonders where he can find a Pensieve. 

 

He sleeps in the room that night. He knows his back will thank him for it in the morning.

He doesn’t have the courage to shift the bed over, to press his back against the unforgiving personality of the wall.

 

They hardly ever argue. Even with all the history between the three of them, Harry doesn’t even know what they would argue about. What’s done is done, right? Let bygones go and all that. 

But this is one of the few times that they do raise their voices at each other. His ears ring as shouts bounce off the walls and echo louder than ever. He fights not to put his hands over his ears and scream until they stop, instead settling for putting all his pain and frustration and his own anger on his face, letting it fuel his voice when he does speak. 

It feels good to let loose. 

Now, he doesn’t even remember what they had been arguing about, just barbs that have lost their sting but still manage to maintain the dulled out memories behind them. 

He does remember the aftermath, though. It’s one of his most favoured memories, made even sweeter from the passion that had fuelled their fight just moments ago.

He’s arching between them, trying to get more contact, before he decides, _this isn’t right_. He manages to flip over and manoeuvre Draco into the middle, who gives a grunt at being manhandled. 

Severus understands, though. 

They’re pressed so tightly against each other that there’s almost no room to take a full breath. Harry knows it’s not close enough, and hooks a leg around Draco to pull himself closer. His cock nudges against Draco’s stomach, and Draco’s against his already prepared hole. With a couple of quick movements, Draco slides easily inside.

Severus has his lips pressed against Draco’s shoulder, his fingers busy with preparing Draco as well. Harry catches each drop of sweat that rolls down Draco’s forehead as he waits, until he can move into Harry, to be filled himself. Harry teases him with small rolling motions of his hips. 

Harry feels it as Severus thrusts forward, pressing Draco further into him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of this, the feeling of getting fucked by both of them at the same time. 

Their rhythm is easy to fall into now, allowing for an easier time of trading kisses and marking pale skin. Draco’s throat is soon covered, back and front, and Harry sucks one last mark in the hollow between his collarbones before they lose control.

 

It’s the blasted bird again, perched just outside the window and singing at the top of its little lungs. Harry turns over and pulls his pillow over his head. Anything to try and grab a few more moments of sleep.

The bird’s chirp gets louder.

Harry rolls over until he’s able to see the sun filtering in through the slightly smeared window. Morning.

He doesn’t remember any nightmares.


End file.
